


for our world is next in line

by ChevreJaune



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Naruto
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Half-Blood Prince AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-22 11:01:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10695657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChevreJaune/pseuds/ChevreJaune
Summary: “There is a war on,” Rose says evenly, “more important things are at stake than my life.” But Severus Snape disagrees – and the potion master is more than willing to make sure that Rose Potter’s survival is not entirely left in her own hands.Rose is not about to trust him completely, though. For one, she’s sure he went insane, because he’s sending her to ninjas.He said, "They might have a key, and you might live from their knowledge". Looking at the sharp end of a kunai, Rose Potter isn’t so sure.





	1. Chapter 1

_have you not heard the wind whistling away in the willows_  
_have you not heard the scorching cries of the widow?_  
_beauty sleep not,_  
_lest you never wake up_  
_or wake up too slow and thus allow_  
_the nightmares of old to follow_  
_where home became a stiff collection of shadowy corners_  
_and the memory of warmth where warmth no longer lingers_

 

 

Hogwarts cried at night.

Not its bustling population. The students could shed their tears during daytime over breakfast and many dinners remembered. The house elves had wailed, the ghosts echoing their mourning. The wand-waving wizards and witches had thrown lights in the sky to blur out the horror of the dark mark, and the sky had kept them bright among the stars.

Quiet underneath the grief of its inhabitants, the grief of the castle was much more subtle. It sang in sorrowful ripples, the old language of stones. Only few heard – the first night, most were too taken by their own pain and fears. Rose Potter had thought she’d never sleep, for her nerves screamed and pulled and something like living magma coursed through her veins. Yet sleep had claimed her as soon as she laid her fiery head on the pillows.

The second night, though. The second night had crawled into her dormitory and silenced the light conversations of her friends. Soon, only rhythmic breathing filled the room, and it mixed seamlessly with the melodic flapping of the wind.

And it was in that rich not-quite silence that Rose Potter caught the tail-end of the castle’s laments.

She had kept her eyes closed waiting for sleep – it had been perhaps an hour now that she had been waiting – but her body never stilled. She fidgeted, twisted and turned. Her blankets had gone humid from her sweat. She didn’t remember falling asleep, but there had been a lapse in her awareness where the shadows thrown by the window had taken life.

Again and again, she had watched Albus Dumbledore fall and she had been kept powerless to stop it.

Every time he pleaded and every time she urged herself to move. She never could. Sometimes she was too slow, sometimes she was chained and the cold metal bit into her skin, sometimes she was spelled powerless like she had been. Sometimes, she just knew she couldn’t save him and so she didn’t try. He always fell. He always looked betrayed. In her half-sleep, she knew he hadn’t truly looked like that – he hadn’t looked at her at all. But in the fabric of not-quite dreams, she felt the pain of it and her leg gave a sudden jerk.

To think that just a few days ago, Hogwarts had still felt so safe and welcoming.

The window of the girls’ dormitory was open; it felt like an accusation. With her dreams still so vivid, Rose could only acknowledge the funeral song carried by Hogwarts’ magic and apologize for her role in the tragedy.

Hogwarts didn’t need her to be sorry – _home_ stood above such things – but it wasn’t about that, was it?

.

.

Hours past midnight, Rose stepped into the infirmary, treading lightly on the tip of her toes. Madam Pomfrey might be taken aback at the need to keep the young Potter out of the hospital wing rather than _in_ it, but Rose had no doubt she’d be chased away for disturbing the peaceful sleep of the patients. Or rather, patient, singular; of the people injured the night prior, only the students had stayed once the day broke.

‘Rose?’ a familiar voice asked from one of the beds. Shifting sheets rustled as her friend sluggishly sat up. She smiled.

She might have felt childish for seeking out comfort after a nightmare – gods, what a mess she would make when she’d leave to fulfill Dumbledore’s last request. However, no matter how silly she felt, she couldn’t deny herself making sure her friends were still alive. Were still close. Besides, with the year she had ahead, it was probably logical to fill up on small comforts while she had the chance.

She let the invisibility cloak slip off her shoulders. ‘Hullo Neville. How’s that leg?’

‘Should you be here?’

She shrugged. ‘Thought you could use a friend.’

Neville watched her closely. He must have read something in her ginger posture, in the tight grip she kept on her precious map. ‘We can always use true friends,’ he offered at last, laying himself back down.

Appeased, Rose grabbed a chair.

She’d miss Neville. She would miss them all, as surely as she would miss a lung if it were torn from her.

Still, missing them was better than having them die for her. Too many had done so already: if anyone else crumbled, lifeless before they even hit the ground, on the sole account that they had mistakenly chosen to love her... her heart might crumble along, never to be whole again.

.

.

Morning came. Rose felt it touch her eyelids, recognized it by the fresh dew on the potted plants, by the crick in her neck and the cramp in her hip. She rubbed at her dry eyes, feeling slightly ridiculous. If Madam Pomfrey caught her, she’d be incredulous that Rose Potter would willingly spend the night in a place she detested so vocally.

It had helped, though.

‘Thanks, mate,’ she whispered at a sleeping Neville before making her exit.

.

 

The first day after Dumbledore’s fall had had the school in a silent daze. The food sent up by the elves had been overly salty, but the murmur of voices hadn’t remarked upon it. It was like a great blanket had been laid over the schools, nestled tightly within the wards, and everything under its dome had been muted. Conversations kept starting up only to fizzle.

The whole disquiet had been very similar to the tangible unease which had followed Cedric’s murder. Not that Rose enjoyed the silence: the constant buzzing in her ears had been louder this time than the piercing cries of Inferi, even as she numbly recounted her story to her friends. Being careful to tell them enough that they understood the importance of what had happened without letting on that she’d soon be gone. That she might never see them again, if she didn’t make it.

The second day still had the whole school feeling off – the ghosts, the portraits, the walls; everything about Hogwarts seemed a bit crooked and empty.

And Hogwarts was indeed emptying itself – students were turning up with their trunks, some looking shamefaced about it, others showing an angry sort of impatience. The Slytherins were obnoxious about their early departure. The Hufflepuffs who chose to go home weren’t meeting their friends’ eyes. Nobody could blame parents who wanted to squeeze their child against them and revel in their continued heartbeat, but. But leaving without saying goodbye wasn’t well regarded. It was – cowardly. Seamus fought to stay.

That was what Gryffindors did, wasn’t it? Because yeah, the school didn’t feel quite so safe without the presence of the greatest sorcerer of three generations, and yet...

Where else could they feel safe now anyway?

.

.

‘I’ll rip his throat out,’ Rose announced as she closed yet another useless tome. ‘On my life I will.’

Ron nodded emphatically without looking up from his parchment. ‘Malfoy or Snape?’

‘Voldemort,’ Rose responded, then paused. ‘But them too. Sod them all to hell.’

It was late afternoon and her feeling of detachment had been growing, twisting, expanding until it wasn’t anything resembling detachment anymore. It itched and choked. It wanted out.

They’d been researching Gryffindor and Ravenclaw’s treasures for hours now. Ron had called dibs on Gryffindor, and had spent a full hour sketching the legendary sword that Rose had jabbed through a big snake’s brains. Rose had persevered through countless lists of Rowena Ravenclaw’s wardrobe, from her most regal gowns to her enchanted shoes. She had discovered many things – among which, apparently the lady was the first to create reading glasses – but only felt more restless as she turned the pages.

An inscribed mirror offered by an admirer was all good, but she hardly thought the evil bane of her life would go for something so lovely and feminine.

The closest thing they'd made to an important discovery had been Hermione finding out about Eileen Prince’s existence. And that had only fouled up Rose’s mood some more.

Pushing the incident out of her mind, Rose picked out another book – the slimmest one she could find; it looked like the diary of a Renaissance lady – and sighed. ‘At least Malfoy looked terribly pathetic. Everything’s his fault, but Dumbledore wanted to…’

Dumbledore had wanted to save him. A few moments before he died, that had been what was on the great man’s mind. Even when she didn’t want to acknowledge it, the offered hand lingered in her mind.

Ron made a sound of frustrated agreement just as Hermione came back to their table with an new pile of books. She set them with a thump.

‘Drawing a horse, Ronald? At this rate-’

Ron straightened up. His cheek and ears were already turning red. ‘That’s not just a horse, that’s Godric’s loyal horse!’

‘You drew five legs,’ Hermione stated curtly before turning to Rose. She has this _look_. It promised _caring_. Rose didn’t like it one bit. ‘Rose, your eyes are glassy.’

‘I’m fine.’

Ron scoffed. ‘Well, _my_ eyes are glassy. And they burn. Let’s just go, alright?’ He stood. ‘Don’t start, Hermione. Honestly, woman. It’s obvious the fifth leg’s a tail and your eyes need a rest if you can’t tell.’

Hermione squinted at the messy drawing. It was still a horse with five rather uneven legs. By the time she looked up to argue the point, her two friends had made their daring escape.

.

.

They got back to the Gryffindor tower with more questions than answers. Usually, it made Rose thrum with the knowledge they were inching their way closer to the truth. This time, she only felt deadened and heavy, like every reach she made only served to distance her from her objective. There could be no thrill when there was no time.

 On the way up the dorm rooms, Hermione threw her an anxious glance. They had not talked much since the half-blood prince conversation, and hadn’t that gone swell.

‘I’m sorry, Rose. For dismissing your concerns about Malfoy and for… for insisting that Professor Snape somewhat cared for you.’

Rose stumbled.

She laughed to dispel the awkwardness of the moment. The brittle pitch only made it worse.

‘Lucky I knew better, yeah? I told you. Snape never cared for anybody.’

 

After all, Dumbledore had begged and Snape had shown no mercy.

Dumbledore had pleaded a friend and a traitor had struck him down.

(What did it say about _her_ that, hours before that ultimate betrayal, the headmaster had pleaded her, begged her for her mercy, and still she’d fed him poison through his pitiful whimpers?)

 

 

* * *

 

 

On the other side of the country, the man who had in fact never been known for his caring heart stared at a bird of immortality and fire, and the package it carried.

It was not a friendly stare. ‘I will burn it. Get it away from here, you daft bird.’

Fawkes let out a sorrowful trill. To Severus Snape’s ears, the call sounded like a screech.

‘Severus, my boy, no need to show such haste towards bitter rage,’ scolded the man from the portrait, though many consonants were swallowed by the yellow sucker the old man had popped into his mouth. The casualness made Severus’ blood boil. ‘We have much to discuss over the coming months; you may dispose of my frame later.’

‘Am I to understand you expect me to follow your orders from beyond the grave? To do your bidding because a splash of ink and paint tells me I must?’

Before the man could answer, Fawkes cried sharply out and disappeared in a blaze.

The portrait stayed. After a moment, it spoke. ‘My dear boy, I do not expect you to obey my orders – but I do trust you will keep to your word and act out in the best interest of those who have earned your trust.’

Snape’s eyes were dark and intent. One might have been able to find sorrow in them; however, he only meant for them to flash with annoyance and ire. When he answered, his teeth barely unclenched. ‘I find some vows more pressing than others.’ Noting his old employer’s frown, he continued, ‘If memory serves, old man, my loyalty was never given to _you_.’

Dumbledore’s frown only deepened. ‘Severus…’

‘I do not care,’ Snape cut in, voice silky and thus dangerous, ‘that you did not see fit to tell me the details of your secret quest for Miss Potter. The word you refused to speak, for fear the Dark Lord might find its echoes in my mind, as if I were some young novice in the art of sealing my thoughts. I care that you know the vow I have taken to protect that foolish witch, and that still you asked me to guide her to her death.’

‘It is inevitable,’ the painted Dumbledore said, and no real trace of regret marred his brow, an effective reminder that the portrait wasn’t the man, wasn't even a good imitation. ‘Even the most rigid unbreakable vow would not blame you for merely sharing information about a matter which cannot be escaped.’

‘And yet the vow does lay blame. Does that surprise the great Albus Dumbledore? Or have you another explanation for the pull I’ve felt ever since you made me promise I would inform an innocent girl of the fate you were too much of a coward to inform her of?’ The man sneered, setting his shoulders back in a swift motion. ‘And today I find myself talking to your portrait, delivered perhaps because you wished to delay the relaying of critical information until a time you were flesh and bones no more.’ 

Dumbledore’s offending candy had long disappeared. ‘You were always too sharp to allow an old man much comfort, my friend.’

‘Will you share this information now should I inquire?’

‘Everything in its due time, Severus. The march of history, as you may know…’

Another beat passed. ‘Yes,’ Snape said with a downturn of his mouth, leaving no doubt as to whom he was wishing to disparage, ‘I suppose we do sometimes sort too soon.’ His eyes fell then to the jar he had been meticulous in preparing, and the dried flowers scattered around it.

For almost a year he had felt the magical oath he’d made to a dead Lily and a younger Dumbledore stir his guts and unstitch his dreams. It had been severely unpleasant, especially combined with the Unbreakable Vow he had made for the sake of the young Draco Malfoy. The experience had not left him feeling too kindly towards either of the dimwitted souls he had promised to protect.

When the constant thrum had changed into a stampede of prickling stings, he had figured one of his vows ready to snap.

But then he had killed Albus Dumbledore and afterward he had fled, fulfilling one vow; and still his insides throbbed and ached. It sent sharper signals when he thought of the Dark Lord’s snake and of Potter’s life.

It was at its most unbearable when he leafed through his foreign research on the subject of souls and extraction. And, because Severus Snape was no dunderhead, he knew. He knew that, for once, his vow was being helpful. It was cheering in joy, rejoicing in his findings and the possibilities they offered.

After all, if what he had read about the surprising magicks of the distant Fire Country proved true…

The girl would live.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_dahlias for inner strength and dignity;_  
_the flower to gift those who in adversity stand tall_  
_white for staying focused and pure_  
_pink petals for grace – for sweet taste of kindness_  
_blue and green preface changes, a morning sea of fresh starts._  
_black, a bitter warning of betrayal;_  
_but on a bright marbled grave_  
_the bouquet only tells of a sinister fall_

Her first week in Hogwarts, Rose Potter had felt exhilarated and _free_ but also so very intimidated. Finally away from Privet Drive and the whispers and rumors, from every suspicious glance thrown at her, she was supposed to be a new Rose Potter.

Of course, there was the whole matter of the Girl-who-Lived.

People knew her. At least, they knew of her.

Some looked at her with worship and awe; a few professors smiled her way, but sadly, old griefs and wounds that time had washed but not cleaned entirely. Professor McGonagall was perhaps the least obvious about it – so much so that, in the beginning, Rose thought the woman might not see the myth that history had stuck to her, to her soles, to her shadow, to her back, to her forehead and to her teeth indiscriminately. It had felt nice. But then Neville Longbottom, sitting in front of her, had made his match burst into a great fire.

McGonagall had pivoted, wand raised, but then her gaze had found Rose. Or rather, something in Rose: Rose didn’t think that her wide distressed eyes were much different from Ron’s, or from any of the Gryffindors clustered around them. And yet the professor had locked eyes on her, she was sure of it, even though it felt more like she’d been seen through than stared at.

And the Scottish woman had faltered.

That millisecond was enough for the magical fire to reduce Neville’s fretful notes to ashes. The poor boy was inconsolable about the whole thing and, still perplexed, Rose wordlessly passed him her notes to copy. Hermione, who had turned around to do the same, took only one look at Rose’s scarce and messy handwriting, and slipped the boy the parchment she had been writing on.

It had quotations, diagrams and illustrations, and her neat writing left no space for margins. Rose was rather certain McGonagall hadn’t talked quite so much, but she just refocused her attention to her grayish match and nudged Ron so that he’d stop glaring at Hermione Granger on her behalf.

He did so with a grumble, and they both started poking their sorry looking projects with their fingers and their wands. Neville touched nothing for the rest of the period, but studied the notes he had been offered with much intensity and despair.

.

.

The very next day, Professor Flitwick called her name and fell from his stool when she waved at him. The class laughed; Rose joined them.

It felt weird, being recognized but not. Being well-known but not known well; being ever watched but never truly seen.

She’d disappoint them before long, and they’d realize they had the wrong person.

(But maybe she could enjoy the feeling of acceptance while it lasted)

.

.

And then came Friday.

That was her first potion class; her first real encounter with the potion master, Severus Snape.

 

*

 

‘That is a nice jar you have there, Severus,’ Dumbledore’s portrait observed merrily, leaning forward in his frame as if it made a difference. ‘Are you making jam or honey? I must say, nightshade is certainly a bold choice for jelly.’

_Honestly,_ Severus thought, _had I known I would be stuck with your endless chatter, I’d have let Draco kill you and deal with the consequences_.

Out loud, he only said, ‘I had planned to add no such nonsense as sugar or honey. It is an elaborate message, not a grandmother’s crafting session.’

‘I pity the maiden who must receive so bland an offering,’ Dumbledore hummed.

Severus crushed the flower he had been trying to fold in the glass.

 

*

 

Rose Potter had had bad teachers before.

Before coming to Hogwarts, they had been the norm. Many teachers cared neither about teaching nor about students in general, the sort who came for the paycheck and earned it by asking them to read in silence. Some teachers did care about their material, though not enough to make the class care too. Teachers like Binns, who cared in such a boring way that it hardly mattered at all.

A few teachers could be heard criticizing the intellectual failings of their charges in the hallway, without minding the witnesses. Others would take one look at Rose and judge her insignificant, unworthy of their time and efforts. The ones she hated most were those who always believed Dudley’s lies about her, even when he’d been an unpracticed liar, although the teachers who ignored her when she still bothered pleading to be heard and understood came close.

None had listened her nervous babbles about needing not to share a desk with Piers Polkins, and most who had sympathy for her lost it when the homework she handed in was unfailingly rushed and greasy.

And yet, in the space of one lesson, Severus Snape had them all beat.

 

*

 

‘You know,’  Dumbledore piped up after a while, ‘nightshade is said to symbolize bittersweet truth.’

Severus stared flatly. _Oh really_ , his expression said.

‘Oh, yes. Its symbolic use in mid-fifteenth century romantic literature has been analyzed in depth by poets and lovers, who have oft imitated it to let down someone they loved but couldn’t make happy.’

The potion master rubbed at his eyes.

After inhaling, he said, ‘The flower signifies only truth. Bittersweet might be its alternate name, but it changes not the meaning.’

‘Is that so?’ The painted man tilted his painted head to the side, looking for all the world like a curious puppy. That this man would be the only man to ever scare the Dark Lord – ridiculous.

Another deep breath. It wouldn’t do to let apoplexy do him in when there were so many more interesting ways to die.  ‘Anyone who knows anything about flowers will understand the code.’

Well. That wasn’t exactly true, but who would fault him? The intended recipient knew more than enough about the subject to not fall prey to misinterpretations.

Dumbledore beamed. ‘Oh! The language of flowers, how thoughtful of you! And here I thought you only wanted to send it as a scarlet fever remedy!’ The dead headmaster shook his head sadly. ‘I am very sorry that I so often underestimate you, Severus.’

 

*

 

The dark haired man had swooped into the room in a flare of dark cloaks and black eyes. He was, much like the Weasley twins had promised, the very picture of an overgrown bat. However, the twins had made it sound funny and laughable. The actual man was sort of terrifying, like a nightmare that grabs your ankle and pulls harshly just as you fall asleep.

As soon as she thought that, his eyes cut to her and narrowed. Her breath caught. Without meaning to, she felt her spine straighten under his scrutiny. It wasn’t tainted with the same sort of snob disdain Malfoy gave the whole world, with an upturned nose and a pout. It did, however, make her feel like she was just a pitiful fly in a sticky web, only surviving because her predator judged her too revolting to eat alive.

She squirmed and immediately hated herself for it.

There was a glint of something in the man’s eyes. Rose hadn’t noticed the minuscule twitches around the professor’s lips as he detailed her physical form and caught sight of a few oddities, but the glint was so familiar – she had, after all, grown up with the Dursleys –, there was no way she wouldn’t recognize it.

She steeled herself.

When he spoke, before even taking roll call, his voice was smooth and deadly.

‘Miss Potter,’ he drawled, eyes never leaving her.

It sure seemed like he wanted to say more. He seemed like he wasn’t sure what words to say first – but she knew none of them would be kind. ‘Yes, sir?’ she asked anyway, because at least unjustified cruelty was familiar territory.

Severus Snape sneered at her, and turned his gaze to the rest of the class.

‘Class, this is Rose Potter, as you are well aware, seeing as she is our new celebrity,’ he spoke calmly, quietly, but everyone shifted their attention to him without hesitation. ‘My colleagues may have given the faulty impression that it matters. I assure you, in this class, Rose Potter is nothing.’ He paused, and went on, though it seemed to be forced for property’s sake, ‘nothing more than another first year student who is woefully unprepared for the delicate art of potion.’

He turned back to her, mocking this time. ‘Or do you believe yourself prepared, Miss Potter?’

She clenched her fists to stop her slight tremble.

She had thought herself ready the day before. She had thought herself prepared this morning at breakfast. That was before her teacher had given her that look. The same look accompanied the words “car crash” in the mouth of her so-called family.

Inwardly, she had dubbed it the ‘wouldn’t it be nice if you hadn’t survived’ look. She had thought she’d grown used to it.

She gave a dull smile. ‘I hope to learn. Sir.’

 

*

 

‘You know,’ Dumbledore started talking again a few minutes later, and Severus cursed for letting himself hope he wouldn’t.

Honestly, he had no idea why Dumbledore put him through this relentless torture – for what else could those conversations be? As it stood, the old man had _begged_ him to kill him. Surely he had no right to take vengeance now.

‘No,’ he responded shortly.

‘You know,’ Dumbledore repeated as if Severus hadn’t said a thing, ‘I am glad you found it in you to let go of your feelings for Lily and let yourself try being happy now.’

Severus closed his eyes. He’d have to brew himself another headache potion. He had already drunk his way through his reserve and his secret reserve in the twelve hours that Dumbledore had become his flatmate. _Wall decoration,_ Severus amended.

‘Still you misunderstand, you impossible man.’

Dumbledore frowned. ‘There is no shame in moving on, Severus. In these perilous times, love may be our ultimate advantage against the darkness advancing.’

‘This will be sent to Rose Potter,’ the potion master cut in before the dead headmaster could continue.

The old man looked aghast. ‘Severus, _no_.’

 

*

 

Rose’s first impression of Severus Snape had been far from positive, and it had gone downhill from there. After she had professed a desire to learn, he had bombarded her with unrelenting questions about material she was sure did not belong on a first year’s curriculum, though looking at the eagerness of Hermione Granger, one would never guess that the thirteen steps to good liver preparation wasn’t in their introductory books. 

Snape graded her works on a twisted curve and scoffed at her questions and her potions.  

The only upside was that, the more awful the head of Slytherin’s house was to her, the nicer her own housemates treated her. The scowling, the swooping, the sneering and the jeering: every quirk of nastiness Severus Snape possessed was vindictively discussed in Gryffindor’s common room. Complaining changed little about the injustice, but the enthusiastic griping sessions rushed along the bonding of the first years.

They’d later find out the phenomenon was quite common amongst young Hogwarts lions. Having a common enemy did wonders for their sense of togetherness.

 

*

 

 ‘Albus,’ Severus said, then paused. ‘Yes.’

Albus Dumbledore may never have had to live with his plans being dismissed and redrawn, but only fools couldn’t learn, and Albus was far from a fool, despite playing one well.

‘Severus, you can’t.’

Was that anxiety? Perhaps a touch of anger? Severus felt smug. ‘I do not think I asked for your permission.’

Strangely, Dumbledore seemed at a loss for words. That was new. In Severus’ experience, when the man had nothing to say, he uttered cryptic strings of empty nonsense. ‘I know you have grown to care for the child, but had I known... Had I only known...’

Severus scoffed. ‘Care? Keep your sentimentality. I hardly care for her.’

 

*

 

There had been a moment in first year, though, where Severus Snape had seemed a bit more human than predator, a bit more ghost than bully.

Rose had been outside, practicing Quidditch drills and acrobatics on her own, enjoying the smooth turns of her Nimbus. The sun had been bright that day, washing the courtyard in a yellow light.

She hadn’t noticed Snape before he barked at her to get down before she broke her neck and inconvenienced Madam Pompfrey with her stupidity. That got her attention, and she slipped from her broom, only barely catching herself on the handle.

She caught his eyes widening as she dangled from her broom.

Which would have been a sign that he wasn’t just out to make her miserable if it wasn’t for the fact that –

‘You startled me on purpose!’ she exclaimed as her feet touched the ground.

He looked at her coolly, sneered at her scarlet dress that matched her hair, and yet it lacked harshness. ‘Gryffindors, always so hotheaded and quick to presume.’

She glared at him.

Unexpectedly, like McGonagall had all those weeks ago, the man faltered. For a moment, a tiny wisp of a Gryffindor girl stared down the head of Slytherin, and he _let_ her. It was impossible and nobody would believe her, no one would ever believe that Severus Snape forgot to take points for her impertinence, forgot to be sinister, forgot to be cruel.

Yet he just looked at her standing in the early afternoon light. ‘Your eyes. They were brown in my class.’

It somehow resembled an accusation. Rose frowned. ‘They’re hazel,’ she said slowly, because she figured that was what he wanted to know, though she couldn’t imagine why. ‘The light makes it change colour, sort of.’ When his eyes kept boring into hers, she felt her shoulders draw back defensively. ‘Does it matter?’

The potion master observed her. ‘More than you think.’

And then, raising an eyebrow, ‘Ten points from Gryffindor for endangering school grounds with your reckless, unsupervised flying, Miss Potter.’

.

.

Okay, so the man had unsettled her.

Rose spent hours upon hours working on her next potion essay after that strange encounter. She wasn’t sure why it felt urgent to prove that she could hand in a perfect work, but it did.

Hermione was surprised but approving. Bad idea, Ron warned, because then their bookworm of a friend would keep expecting this kind of studiousness from her, and then were would they be?

_It’ll be worth it_ , Rose assured, though she could only hope that to be true.

When she slapped down her homework on the Snape’s desk the next Friday, she held his gaze and had to force down the urge to say, ‘Shove it!’.

From the unimpressed stare he gave her, maybe something of her face said it loud enough.

.

.

Severus Snape could find no fault in her paper.

It was worth it.

 

*

 

 ‘To honour your memory,’ Severus offered as a peace offering, because as infuriating as the man was, he had done good where and when he could, ‘since it is your funeral tomorrow, I won’t disclose your role in this turn of events.’

 ‘My role…? Severus, you can’t mean I have something to do with this.’

‘You can’t mean you _haven’t_ ,’ retorted Severus, back to glaring. ‘You planned her death! Surely you wouldn’t be so senile as to forget.’

Dumbledore frowned, then suddenly lit up. ‘You mean you are going to tell her about our arrangements early so she’ll forgive you.’

‘Not ours, and not so that she forgives me, but so that she might have a chance to survive,’ Severus objected darkly. He then scowled. ‘Why sound like you only just worked that out?’

Dumbledore’s eyes widened.

A moment later, the elderly man started to whistle innocently, a light blush spreading under his beard.

Re-examining the conversation took Severus the matter of seconds. ‘You thought,’ he started, then stopped, the words too horrifying to utter. ‘Your memory doesn’t deserve to be preserved, you sordid old man,’ he decided with scorn and finality.

He’d tell Potter _everything_.

 

* * *

 

 

‘Achoo,’ said Lavender Brown when Rose got back to the dorm after another fruitless day of searching answers in books.

Rose frowned. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘Achoo,’ Lavender repeated pointedly. ‘Achoo, achoo, achoo.’

‘Lav, you’re not actually sneezing. What’s going on?’

‘I’m allergic to flowers,’ the girl said with a huff, crossing her arms.

‘Flowers?’ repeated Rose dumbly, thinking about all the times that Lavender hadn’t been allergic to flowers. Maybe it was a new development. Maybe it was caused by her breakup with Ron, as so many other things were. ‘You’ve never been allergic to flowers before.’

Lavender’s look became more and more pointed. Rose followed its direction. ‘I’ve always been allergic to ugly flowers, Rose. Why do you think I couldn’t stand your weird muggle clothes in first year?’

The girl had been looking at a gloomy jar of dried, thorny flowers. It was a potion’s jar, so Rose was certain that it was hermetically shut and it could do no damage other than being a possible eyesore, but there was something to it. ‘What’s it doing here?’

‘How would I know? It’s on your bed, isn’t it?’ retorted Lavender tartly.

‘So it was already there when you got in?’

‘Well, no,’ Lavender admitted, ‘it just appeared a while ago.’

Rose stared at her friend, then at the jar. Huh. ‘Nightshade,’ she murmured as she picked up the jar, missing the small slip of parchment that fell on the floor as she did so. ‘It’s used for lung-cleansing potions.’ Except in potions, you’d hardly need all the parts of the flower and stem, would you? The nagging feeling of staring at something significant but missing the point came back. From the looks of it, it wasn’t deadly nightshade. It was just the common sort – the one that also grew in the Muggle world, though the non-magical name for it was bittersweet.

‘When did you turn into Granger?’ Lavender cut into her thoughts, voice sharp and unforgiving.

Everything about Lavender was sharp and unforgiving when Hermione came up, these days.

Rose sent her a strained smile. ‘Don’t worry, Lav, I’ll get rid of it.’

‘Won’t your lover _mind_?’

The girl-who-lived laughed at the wrong conclusion in spite of herself.

‘Dry truth is hardly the sweet whisper of a lover, is it?’

.

.

She left the jar by the foot of Neville’s bed. There’d be time to figure it out later.

                      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for following this story! knowing people will read the next chapters is rather encouraging; also, don't take it as a guarantee, but chapter three should be out next saturday, I reckon. 
> 
> in the meantime, I've written many background oneshots (mostly about the earlier years) when outlining this story, which could probably stand alone, I s'pose. would anyone be interested in reading side-fics of the same characters/universes?

**Author's Note:**

> heya! hi. for this WIP, I have a lot in store, so I'm hoping some of you will want to enjoy the ride with me. as it stands, this fic is unbeta'ed; if you feel generous and are interested in looking over it as I keep posting the next chapters, I'd love that. otherwise, well, feel free to say hi!


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